14 and the daughter of a holy Roman clothed
in white, a bride
by proxy.
A christening
it’s not. Just
a royal baptism,
a power move, a bishop blessing
the union
of two pawns. 50,000
subjects vibrating out of their skin,
as if you can move
heaven and earth. Eyes
forward, steps even,
be
gentle, beautiful, speak
clearly, be quiet, you should
know how to act “like a lady.”
You put on your rouge and wash
your hands in front of the whole world.
Things can burn up when under
a magnifying glass for too long.
19 and a queen,
do you love him yet?
Begging a foreigner for a child,
your value has been determined
by the width of your hips,
swallowing fertilizer like your womb is nothing
more than a garden. “And who knows
whether you have not
come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” 20
and a mother,
a pink nursery is not a symbol
of defeat. Your labor made you a Hercules.
(“Poor little girl, you are not what was
desired, but you are no less dear to me
on that account.
A son would have been property
of the state. You shall be mine.”)
Uneasy and full
of rage, your entire country is going up to bat
while you go up on a Tuesday.
I apologize, I’m afraid you’ve been misquoted.
Call out your name in ecstasy,
there is a peculiar madness
that accompanies a people mistreated.
A sacrifice must be made,
so woman thou art lost.
37 and dressed in white again, a widowed queen without. Alien
cargo paraded through the streets, lion-
hearted and head held high, ah, to be
courteous to Monsieur Sanson.
You were never just
an Austrian.